When I came home late from work, my husband slapped me and screamed, “Do you know the time, you useless bi:tch? Get in the kitchen and cook for my mother!” I cooked for an hour, only for her to take one bite, spit it out, and shove me so hard I started bleeding—I knew I was losing the baby. I reached for my phone to call 911. My husband threw it away. I looked him in the eye and said, “Call my father.” They had no idea who he really was.

“Don’t talk about my father,” I said, and even though my voice shook, it didn’t disappear.

Mrs. Higgins’s eyebrows lifted in mock surprise. Her chair scraped back as she stood.

“Are you talking back to me?” she spat. “You pathetic little—”

She shoved my shoulder.

I was exhausted. Off balance. My feet tangled under me, and I went sideways—too fast to catch myself.

My belly hit the sharp edge of the granite counter.

Pain—blinding, tearing, unreal—ripped through me so hard it stole my breath. I crumpled to the floor, the scream dying in my throat because there wasn’t enough air to carry it.

Then warmth ran down my leg.

I looked and saw red spreading across the tile.

“Dave,” I choked, voice breaking into something raw. “Help me. Please—our baby…”

He stood there with a fork still in his hand, chewing like the sight of me was an inconvenience. He looked down at the blood and then at my face, and his expression wasn’t fear.

It was disgust.

“Stop being dramatic,” he said coolly. “You’re making a mess. Get up and clean the floor.”

Mrs. Higgins laughed—high and brittle—like shattered glass.